They’d made it to the gate in time to join another queue to board. Their delayed progress through the airport meant that they’d missed Premium Economy boarding and were at the back of the economy queue. Ana had bitten back her annoyance at Stella’s chaotic cock-ups because she could tell there was something terribly wrong. Stella always did things her own way, but she was never a mess nor a liability. Whatever had happened since her panicked decision to join them in New York, it was clearly massive, so massive that Ana was dreading the big reveal. Besides, Ana had her own preoccupations.
Ana could see that Stella’s red eyes were lipped with tears. Her heart fizzed in sympathy and she dropped her head onto Stella’s shoulder. Stella’s hand comforted her.
‘Is it all going to be all right?’ whispered Ana.
‘Fuck, yes!’ shouted Stella, trying to wave her arm for another drink, which was packaged in a heavy faux-fur. Looking down at Stella’s legs, which were uncomfortably crossed in the knee-high boots, Ana couldn’t stop laughing.
‘Don’t laugh,’ said Stella. ‘I’m not wearing a bra. The jiggling is starting to hurt.’
Ana laughed more.
The flight passed in a disconnected nightmare of hydration and extended queueing for the toilets. Mostly water for the maybe pregnant Ana; gin for the volatile Stella. The food was superb though a chicken curry wouldn’t have been Ana’s first choice, nor would the sweet kulfi dessert. Fortunately they were on their way to see their best friend so they laughed and cried their way across the Atlantic.
They staggered off the plane in Newark and weaved and wobbled their way down dour, gruesomely carpeted corridors under strip lights that honestly made them look like they’d clawed their way out of their graves, not spent seven hours in Premium Economy. Despite the sign ‘Welcome To The United States’, the reception from the border protection was hostile. When Stella was asked the purpose of her visit and replied, ‘Self-annihilation,’ the moustachioed officer, who resembled the postman off Cheers, stared at her as if she’d roasted his mother.
‘Sorry… Pleasure.’
When Stella couldn’t remember the full address of Dixie’s apartment, Ana stepped forward to help.
‘Behind the line, please, ma’am.’
They were eventually admitted and having successfully declared with straight faces that they’d had no contact with farm animals in the previous six weeks, they’d marched arm in arm through the sliding doors.
‘Do you think that Dixie will be here to collect us?’
‘Not a freaking chance.’
‘Will you call her?’
‘You call her.’
A wall of expectant faces met them. Ana hopefully scanned the line of chauffeurs and limo drivers with white boards and branded signs. One brought her to a stop. A neat white board with a single underlined word.
‘She wouldn’t,’ said Ana, laughing.
Stella guffawed.
Green pen on a white board read: BITCHES.
Dixie appeared from behind the small chauffeur, who looked terrified of them and her. They fell into each others’ arms laughing.
‘Bitches! How could you!’
‘It was too easy.’
‘I fucking love you, Dix,’ said Ana.
Less than three hours later, they were seated at a table by the safe in the Campbell Apartment, one of their favourite bars in Grand Central Terminal. Three Thyme Collinses and three empty dishes that had once held lobster sliders. Stella had insisted on sticking with the gin theme.
‘Sad people need sad drinks.’
Dixie was looking fabulous. Ana had never seen her look so self-contained, so powerful. Something about her confidence and the protective shield of skin-tight leather gave the impression of a Marvel superhero or Trinity from the Matrix series. All black leather, high quality and clinging, topped off by a knee-length leather coat over which her long shiny locks tumbled a riot of red that glowed whenever she flicked her head. Dixie was making faces over Stella’s head; she was mouthing something that seemed to be: Is she OK?
Ana shrugged. She knew Stella would need a trip to the loos eventually. No one’s bladder could endure that much gin without a reaction.
‘Do you think these people know who I am?’ Stella asked, her voice gradually growing louder. ‘Do you know who I am? Stella Hammerson. But you can call me The Boss. The boss of all of you. For why? For why because I have endured. I am the mistress of reinvention. Did I tell you girls that I am going to be the editor of a digital Slop. No, Sloppy! Don’t forget the exclamation mark. It’s evidence of the cutting edge on which I exist. And you know the old saying: If you’re not on the edge, you’re taking up too much room. Anyway, I got the job! I found out last night… I am now a working woman again! So screw Jake, I can do this on my own.’
‘Congrats, Stella,’ screeched Dixie, ‘that is amazing!!’
The hostess appeared, and with that solicitous authority of a seasoned Manhattan professional, she asked if anyone needed anything, distracting from the Slop! chat.
Stella beckoned her closer.
‘Do you know that – oh my god. Your eyes. They are so green. They’re incredible. Like shiny green beacons to guide one home. Can you tell that I am fluid? You know fluid? Ya hear me?’
Dixie intervened. ‘I’m so sorry. She just had some good news. She is a little overexcited to say the least…’
‘Fuck off Dixie, if I think…’
Ana and Dixie kicked her simultaneously.
‘Just the check, please,’ Dixie said with an apologetic smile.
‘You’re so boring. You’re so straight. You look badass, but you’re actually a bit stuck-up. Did you know that, Trixie Dixie? Isn’t she, Ana?’
‘We have plans tomorrow, Stells. You’re clearly tired. I’m tired. According to our body clocks it’s almost 2 a.m.’
‘We want you at your best tomorrow morning. I have such a treat for you guys – the perfect cure for jet lag. Trust me. You’re going to love this. It was Freddie’s idea. He’s such a doll. You’re going to bust a gut.’
‘I. Will. Not. Be busting anything. Least of all my gut.’
‘The driver is picking us up at 10 a.m. I hope you have some comfortable, loose-fitting clothes.’
‘For schizzle,’ said Stella, sitting unnaturally upright and bouncing her breasts one at a time. Ana was mortified to see that she still wasn’t wearing a bra.
They steered her towards Vanderbilt Avenue and folded her into a cab, taking a door each. She fell asleep on Ana’s arm, mumbling something about the delicious scent of cocoa butter, or some such gibberish.
‘At last,’ sighed Dixie. ‘What the fuck, Ana? You had one job.’
‘God, she just won’t stop.’
Ana proceeded to tell Dixie everything she’d gleaned from Stella between drinks and naps on the flight. Jake had betrayed her. The details were murky but he’d been gambling. It was the final straw. Ana knew there was more to the story, but Stella had dissolved into incoherent rants about throwing her life away on a man with the integrity of a Cheeto. How she hoped her children had her genes, cos Jake’s genes would be a poor fit for anyone.
They were soon at Columbus Circle and escorting Stella safely past the anxious-looking porter and up to Freddie’s flat. Stella came round and Dixie smothered her in the folds of her leather overcoat and they bustled her into the flat.